


felled by you, held by you

by casualbird



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Anal Fingering, Fluff and Smut, Hand Jobs, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Praise Kink, Trans Male Character, Vaginal Sex, edging specifically, so much praise kink you can't even imagine, trans jeralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: Jeralt had told him he’d deny him three times, and knowing always made it feel safer, more certain.Jeraltalways makes him feel certain, with the rough-cut steadiness of him.Seteth is good.
Relationships: Jeralt Reus Eisner/Seteth
Comments: 4
Kudos: 41





	felled by you, held by you

**Author's Note:**

> heyooo! just letting you know, jeralt is trans in this and there's a Brief moment of penetration, though i don't use any gendered words to describe his business. there wasn't space to mention this in the text also but this is Safer Sex, jeralt has been on the fantasy pill for like a million years.

Jeralt folds Seteth’s underthings neat as you please, leaves them in a soft stack on the nightstand. He can’t resist another kiss, long and slow and delving, while he guides Seteth’s wrists above his head, binds them in a bow with silken cord.

Still--he’s got to pull back eventually, to check the tension of the bond, but it’s worth it. Worth it for what’s ahead, and even more so for the way Seteth looks at him, eyes hazy and dazed, as if he was not only the one who hung the moon but the one who made it in the first place. As if he’d spent countless hours hewing it out of marble, chiseling every crater just the way Seteth would want.

“I’ll take care of you,” Jeralt swears, barely above a sigh, and reaches for their little jar of oil.

The slickness of it does little to soften his workman’s palms--rather, it throws the weathering, the scars and calluses into harsher relief as they curl around Seteth’s cock. He shivers, bucking a little, a twinge in his hips he can’t ignore.

Jeralt holds him like that for a moment, smiling down with a deep, sun-warmed love. Seteth can only keep shivering. Finally, Jeralt’s wrist turns, stroking with a warm, even pressure. Gentle, but shielding, enfolding, a sensation to make him settle and twitch at once.

Seteth’s lips fall open, a little gasp slipping out. Jeralt leans to kiss his brow, his cheekbone, the join where stubble meets the soft space below his pointed ear.

“Do you like it, sweetheart?” His voice is raspy, a thick-knit woolen sweater on bare skin.

Seteth mumbles a _yes,_ his breath already half-lost. Jeralt always rewards him for being forthcoming--Seteth whimpers at the humid graze of teeth against his ear.

“Is it gonna make you come?”

A fang presses into Seteth’s swollen lips, and he shakes his head. An absent motion, too-slow and glassy-eyed.

Jeralt _hmms,_ considering. “You need more, then?”

Another shake of the head, this one more urgent. Seteth’s blood is heaving through his veins, throbbing all over--but still--

“N-no,” he says, a little choked. “I mean--I won’t--you haven’t given me permission, oh, Jeralt, now…!”

Jeralt’s hand is gone in an instant, and Seteth cries full-throated at the loss, body quivering and taut with sudden cold.

The consolation is that he’s done it, that Jeralt mumbles praise into his ear, calls him _Set_ and _sweetheart_ and _good boy,_ always, _Jeralt’s_ good boy.

It’s hard to breathe the way he needs to, slow and deep and tidal, but he manages. Jeralt’s clean hand smooths soothing over his shoulder, that same insistent pressure. It helps, and in a moment Seteth’s ready to sally forth, try again.

Jeralt had told him he’d deny him three times, and knowing always made it feel safer, more certain. _Jeralt_ always makes him feel certain, with the rough-cut steadiness of him.

“I--I’m ready,” he manages, and Jeralt kisses the fine lines on his forehead, at the corner of his eye. His unshaven jaw scrapes against thin skin, and Seteth jerks at the thought of waking up and feeling it still.

A nod from Jeralt, sober and sweet. “You want it how we talked about, with my finger in you? Can you take it? You’re shivering so much, baby.”

It gives Seteth a moment’s pause--more so than anything, he wants to be obedient. More than he wants to be filled, to be petted soft inside, he wants to be good.

He won’t be punished if he can’t--that’s neither his way nor Jeralt’s. He’ll be dabbed clean and gentled and cradled to sleep just the same as he’d be otherwise, but oh, still Seteth _wants to be good._

It comes to him, how proud his dear Jeralt will be if he can handle it, manage it anyway.

_“Please,”_ he huffs, with the same quaver in his voice as if he’s freezing, as if Jeralt’s a warm hearthstone, a mug of mulled cider.

Jeralt smiles even wider, reaches down for a little extra oil. Still, his eyes stay pinned in place, as if he couldn’t move them if he tried. It’s the sort of thing that used to make Seteth feel… naked, when they were first together, more so than he sometimes was. Now the gaze covers him like a thick blanket, like worn hands tucking him in.

It makes him ache, and he cries out when Jeralt’s dry hand lands on his inner thigh, coaxes him open. Jeralt shushes him, all gentle and rhythmic and without any caution or annoyance.

“I’ve got you, Seteth,” he croons, and Seteth only hears _you’re mine._

The word _yours_ comes out a little warped, twisted around the way he whines when one slick fingertip brushes at his entrance. Patiently, gently, just to make its presence known. His thighs tense, tightening at Jeralt’s wrist, and he makes to apologize.

Jeralt’s head is shaking, though, before he can find the words. “So sensitive,” he remarks, the same way he might call him clever or hardworking in the day. His finger circles slowly, deliberately, helping him to acclimate until he’s tugging gently at Seteth’s rim, stealing his breath.

“Want more?” Seteth nods, a little _yes_ tumbling from bitten lips. He prepares himself, waiting for that finger to press inside--and spasms when instead Jeralt’s other hand wraps light around his cockhead. 

Jeralt laughs a little, as kind and soft a thing as Seteth’s ever heard.

“Is it too much, sweet pea?” Another hazy shake of the head, around ragged, mastering breaths. His teeth grind--but he can handle it. He can be good.

And then Jeralt speaks again, something that Seteth can’t quite parse but is probably _then you won’t mind this,_ and the whole of his index finger sheathes in him, slow like the diffusion of scented salts into bathwater. Suddenly it is too much, and being good is much more difficult, much more urgent.

“N-now--!” he gasps, and Jeralt’s hands are gone again, darting up to smear oil on Seteth’s chest, gentling him. Bending to nuzzle at his bruised, beard-burned neck, whispering sweetly to him.

“You’re doing perfect, Set, lovely” he says, worshipful and throaty. “So good--I dunno how you do it, you run your ass ragged all week keeping everything in order, and then you come to bed with me and let me boss you around. ‘S incredible, I’d never--you’re such a _good boy.”_ It comes out with all the reverence of the first time he’d said it, accompanied by a long, warm kiss on Seteth’s fevered cheek.

Jeralt reaches out, then, traces one slick finger through the dip of Seteth’s sternum, over the curve of his belly, deskwork-soft. Across his Adonis line, then shifting to tease at a quivering thigh.

He wracks with the touch, crying out and dripping a long thin thread of pre. Jeralt wipes it away with the pad of his thumb, mumbles _easy, easy._ And he _makes_ it easy, withdraws his hand and breathes deep so Seteth can match his rhythm, can twitch himself still.

Not entirely still. Seteth’s sure that’d be impossible. But he gets close enough, and his fingers tense where they’re still laced, because he wants and he’s so close, there’s so little left he needs to do.

He wants it, wants to throw himself on it, wants to quiver and thrash and ache until Jeralt’s through.

“Again,” he breathes, and his voice runs slipshod over his tongue. Jeralt soothes him with a kiss to his bound wrist, just to the side of his pulse point.

Jeralt doesn’t waste time, though--Seteth has asked for this challenge, and Jeralt trusts that he can clear it, that he can be good. Soon he’s shifting up again, re-upping the oil on his finger, slipping back inside. Seteth jolts with the slow strokes over his weak spot, a deep even pressure that makes him roil inside.

He shifts, cries out. Jeralt doesn’t move, his sweet soft standing stone. He never does, when they’re like this or at any other time--always a wide safe shore to wreck on.

Seteth doesn’t realize he’s sobbing until Jeralt’s free hand comes up, brushes off his tears with the pad of his thumb.

“Angel,” he croons, sweeping sweat-plastered hair from Seteth’s forehead, combing through and petting his scalp with those same slow, certain strokes. Seteth twitches, judders, calls his name through a throat pulled taut.

Jeralt shakes his head, the smile lines at his eyes, at the corners of his mouth running deeper. “If you aren’t the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Look at you, Seteth, poor baby, look how well you’re doing.” He laughs, sighing. “I’ve got half a mind to give you your reward right away...”

A little cry of protest--Jeralt’s eyes crinkle shut with adoration. “I know, sweetheart, I won’t. But it won’t be long now, will it?”

Seteth makes to agree, but all that comes through him is a cringing little cry. The hand in his hair travels down over his marked-up neck, knuckles brushing soft over bitten nipples, stubble-burned skin. It stops below his hips, the barest touch just running up the length of his cock, red and swollen and _hurting._

Jeralt’s hand breaks for his hip, pulls him in closer. He bends, unhurried, lips parting for the kind of kiss that Seteth gets only between the hours of twilight and dawn--a sleepy, deliberate thing, affirming once again that he is under Jeralt’s protection, Jeralt’s care.

Seteth turns his head away at the last second, a jerking, wrenching move, and Jeralt stops.

“Okay, Set?”

He hisses through clenched teeth, groping for words in the warm dark of his mind. “Yes,” he sighs, “but I can’t, if you--Jeralt, please, I’ll _\--disobey.”_

Thrashes, then, nearly knocking Jeralt’s hands away, though he holds fast. “Please,” he slurs, tight and teary, “help, I can’t--!”

Jeralt only nods, withdrawing his hand, wrapping slick fingers firm around the root of Seteth’s cock. Seteth sears with it, wailing, without a thought as to whether the walls will be enough to curtail the sound. It doesn’t matter, _nothing_ matters but the clutch of Jeralt’s fingers, the gentling of his free hand over Seteth’s heaving ribs. The sound of his voice, sweet and coarse as raw sugar, murmuring _yeah, that’s right, that’s my boy..._

When Jeralt’s grip releases, falls away, Seteth nearly comes with the realization that he’s done it, done exactly as he’s been told. Done exactly what he’s asked for--it’s a heady, shivering thing, and Jeralt only deepens it with his hushing praises, the way he moves to cover Seteth wholly with his body.

Their chests press together, and Seteth loves the lull of Jeralt’s heartbeat, so much easier than his own. Thinks that when this is over, he’ll ask Jeralt to lie with him like this, let Seteth’s twitching pulse slow and synchronize. He sighs, pangs with the thought.

Jeralt kisses him, slow in the hollows of his cheeks and temples, still mumbling something Seteth can’t parse but knows is lovely. Goes on until Seteth’s arms shift, testing their bonds with the deep-running impulse to clutch at his back.

“You want it now?” asks Jeralt, though his eyes glimmer with knowing. Seteth nods without needing to--Jeralt must know it from the way he bucks.

He shuffles a moment, canting back, lining up. Seteth whimpers at even the slightest brush of fingers at the crown of his cock, but goes silent after that because there is no breathing. Not when Jeralt’s strong thighs hold his hips, not when his cock nudges Jeralt where he needs him, warm and enfolding and _wet._

Seteth isn’t sure if its the sensation or just the way Jeralt sighs, smiles at him--no matter what, he comes before he’s all the way inside, a burst of gasps and spasms like he’s been struck. It almost _hurts,_ it’s perfect, and his wrists twist at his bonds, body aching to reach for Jeralt’s, to clutch him and cleave tight until the wracking stops.

When it’s finished he feels foggy, slackened and slaked. Jeralt coos at him, probably has been the whole time, though it’s only now he can parse it. “You came so hard, baby,” he said, “you did so good, you were so perfect. My good boy”

Seteth nods, absent but wholly engaged, still clinging like Jeralt’s a port in a storm. Listening to the rasp of his words, the easy wax and wane of his breath.

He obeyed, he thinks, he was good, and this--this is his reward. Lying beneath him, beside him, safe and tended and beloved… This liminal holding-time, between the breaking point and the washcloth, Jeralt’s fingers massaging the stiff joints from his bonds--this is what he was, what he’ll always be good for.

**Author's Note:**

> hey i hope you enjoyed!!! this just grabbed me by the throat and would not let me stop until it was Done and Out In The World. i'm pretty proud of it, but i'd love to hear what you thought!
> 
> come talk about old men with me on [twitter](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles) if you like, and have a lovely day! <3


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